On Golden Sands
by museme87
Summary: Even after they're both long since gone, Alice will remember him like a hazy dream—his insurmountable youth and the taste of the sea in the air.  James/Alice


**Pairing:** James/Alice (with past Lily/James and present Alice/Frank)**  
><strong>**Warnings:** sexual situations, infidelity, age disparity (18/27)**  
><strong>**Author's Notes:** Written for LJ's **mwpp_mischief**'s _Marauder Rare Pairs_ fest. Alice and James have become something of a guilty pleasure of mine, and it was a pleasure writing them. I wouldn't let the warning for infidelity scare anyone off, especially those who love Alice/Frank, as it's firmly established in the fic where Alice's heart lies. Thanks to L for the beta. The lyrics within the fic and the title both come from Bobby Darin's "Beyond the Sea".

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><p>.<p>

It's hard to believe that it's all going to be over soon. Two days left. Two days until she has to say goodbye to this tiny sea-side cottage she has called home for three weeks, goodbye to evening strolls with the ocean lapping at her feet. Goodbye to the small lace curtains on the kitchen window, to waking up to the sound of waves smacking the sandy shore. And for what? The hustle and bustle of London? Alice would rather live here in this house at the corner of Nowhere and Eternity. The only problem is she can't.

As she walks towards the water—sun just rising and cool breeze tossing her frizzy blonde curls—Alice tries to take it all in. The sand shifts under her bare feet, catching between her toes and coating the soles. Her skin feels clammy from the sea, and some days she feels more damp than dry. More than anything, it's a refreshing change, even if her once carefully put together appearance suffers for it. Sometimes in London her skin feels so dry it could crack.

When Alice reaches the clear water, she sits, thighs pulled to her small chest. With her arms wrapped around her legs, she rests her chin on her knees and gazes out to where sea meets sky. It's barely dawn, colors a warm mix of reds and oranges, golds and pinks. There's a touch of purple, too, nestled into the skyline beneath the otherwise burning sky.

Purple is her favorite color, and in an almost-panic, she wonders if James knows.

Turning, she glances back at the cottage to the open window where the ends of sage-colored curtains blow beyond the frame in the breeze. He's sleeping in there, his hair a muss and mouth agape. She knows because she only just left him, slipping on her panties and his discarded white tee before heading out to _their_beach.

Alice wonders if she should have regrets. If she should, she doesn't. Only guilt. Guilt for being happy in the middle of a war. Guilt for having danced on the floor and in bed with a young man almost a decade younger than her—he her charge and she his mentor. Guilt for doing and feeling all of this behind Frank's back. But, she can come to terms with that later. For now, she wants only _this_. And James.

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><p>.<p>

_"You like to sing."_

Startled, Alice looks up from her menu to where James sits across from her, hands folded before him and chin resting on his knuckles. Heat rushes to cheeks and, flustered, she prays that they're not as pink as she thinks they are. How did he know that? Had he heard her in the shower yesterday morning at the cottage? He'd been asleep in his room. She hadn't thought…

Damn.

"A bit, yes," she admits softly, wetting her lips in nervous habit and diverting her eyes to the wineglass next to her plate.

"You're very good."

Now her whole face is aflame at the compliment. She never lets anyone—

anyone_— hear her sing besides Frank. And it's not as if she's at all good. Oh, he's probably just being polite. After all, what else are they going to talk about? They've little in common, aside from their work in the Order. And despite the fact that Alice serves as James' almost-mentor in the group, she knows very little about him beyond his interest in Evans and how they're no longer together. That, and he's as sharp as a knife on the battlefield._

"Thank you, James."

"I don't suppose you like to dance as much as you like to sing?" he asks, as another song begins over the speakers.

Alice struggles in vain to suppress a wearied sigh. "I've two left feet."

"Brilliant!" And James smiles—one notoriously charming and mischievous in the same instant. "Because I've two right. We ought to make a decent pair, then."

Before she knows it, he's taking her hand and leading her to the dance floor with the other couples without even having her consent. When he spins her into his arms, taking her hand into his and placing his other on her waist, Alice tries to resist apologizing in advanced for his soon-to-be sore feet. It's a quickly aborted effort as the words come tumbling from her lips.

"Not to worry, dove. I've drunkenly waltzed with Sirius on at least two occasions that I can remember. And let me just tell you this: those posh dance lessons Mummy Black paid for didn't do a damn thing for him."

She can't quite help laughing at the image of James and Sirius—quite frankly two of the most hilarious and good-looking blokes she's ever met—in a tangle of hands and legs stumbling around the dormitory. James grins at that and makes some remark about her finally loosening up. Up until then, Alice hadn't noticed how tightly wound she'd been.

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><p>.<p>

Alice wonders if things would be different if she were a Gryffindor. Gryffindors—always thinking recklessly and leading with their hearts. Maybe then she might be able to embrace the stirrings of emotion that James brings from her. Maybe then she might ask James if they could continue this back in London. They'd have a torrid affair—maybe she'd be rid of Frank altogether—and fall helplessly for one another.

But she's not a Gryffindor. She's a Hufflepuff—a realist, a rational person. While Ravenclaws live in the above in a daze of thoughts and dreams, while Slytherins live only in the future to seek out their glory, while Gryffindors live foolishly in one single moment, Hufflepuffs—in her opinion—take everything into consideration. Past, present, future simultaneously. Weigh options, take time.

Alice knows that James is not the right choice for her.

Certainly, she loves what he makes her feel in the moment, the way he has her heart pounding with a look of his eyes or brush of his fingertips. She loves how he dotes on her, indulges her, and heaps praise on every little thing she does.

Alice admires his wit, his intelligence. The way he duels like a champion and never backs down from a challenge. He's almost like the Prince Charming in all those fairy tales her grandmother read to her when she was just a little girl. James is romance embodied, a Gryffindor knight. Everything she wants and nothing she wants in the same instant—a paradox even she struggles to understand.

More than anything, Alice knows that she wants to spend her life with Frank. Easy-going, average Frank. Sure, he's a pure-blood, but not in the way that James is. Frank's courage is subtle. He's what Gryffindors become when they're a bit older, a bit wiser and world weary. She supposes that he once was a bit like James, but she'd hardly known him then. His steadiness is what she needs in her life, not the tempest that is James Potter. Still, James has stolen a piece of her heart that Alice knows she'll never reclaim.

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><p>.<p>

_It was never supposed to happen like this. Well, never supposed to happen _at all_, really. But as Alice feels James' fingers running through her hair, resting just so before fisting her curls, she realizes she has no desire to stop him. Not when he's looking at her like that—like she's the only thing keeping this world spinning. And she supposes that, in reality, she's the one that leaned in first._

His lips move against hers, and Alice is suddenly self-conscious. He feels so…experienced—the way he captures her mouth completely, the way he has her suddenly molding to his touch as if there's nothing wrong with what they're doing. How many witches has he had? And how can she—plain, mousy Alice—possibly measure up to all those inevitably gorgeous women who have laid claim to him, if only for a night. She's nothing special, nothing like Lily—who she knows he loves madly—but it's a testament to the skill of his tongue that she almost forgets it.

When he slips his tongue between her lips, she tastes firewhisky. Her tongue pushes against his, reveling in the flavor—potent and bitter. They've not had enough to be doing this from drink alone, and for the first time Alice realizes how drawn she's always been to this young man. A colt running in a herd of stallions, and yet no one notices his age because he has them all convinced he's one of them.

What's more is that he's convinced her as well, bringing his free hand to her neck. His fingers brush against her clammy skin, sending a shiver down her spine, and trail lower. The only moment of hesitation she feels is when his hand hovers just above her breast. The question hangs in the air between them—

do you want…I mean…is this alright?...what about Frank?...what about the war?...and we're supposed to be on assignment_._

"Do you want me?" she whispers, finding her own flicker of Gryffindor courage, of Slytherin treachery.

He nods, like a dumbstruck little boy, and Alice can't help but see his age in that moment. It's endearing in a way—the reluctance—if only because she can see him vulnerable for the first time. He needs her in a way that no one has ever made her feel needed before. And perhaps that's why she treasures his youth so very much.

Taking his larger hand into her smaller one, she brings him to her breast. Because just maybe he wouldn't have done it otherwise. But when she extends herself to him, James is suddenly upon her, wild and eager. They're a tangle on the sofa—his hands tugging and pinching at her chest, inching up her skirt, his lips a fury on her neck—and Alice briefly thinks that she could really teach him how to love a woman, just as she taught him how to kill a man.

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><p>.<p>

Alice never hears him approaching and only notices him as he flops down—all gangling limbs—next to her. She smiles to herself, thinks what a brilliant Auror he could make if it weren't for his taste for glory. Heroes never make it long in the MLE, either because of monotony or death. And so Alice doesn't even bother planting the seed; she doesn't want to see him dead.

Any further thoughts—thoughts about how James is already a marked man—escape her as James sidles up next to her, nuzzles her chin with his nose. She eases against him, letting him wrap an arm around her small shoulders. And suddenly overcome with strange emotion, Alice shuts her eyes quickly and wishes to freeze this moment in time.

Unsurprisingly, James picks up on nothing, and thank Merlin he's young enough to miss it.

"So, how was your trip down the rabbit hole?" he asks smiling, words uttered to the brim with suggestion.

She rolls her eyes. "As if I've never heard that one before, Potter."

Before she can fracture his healthy ego any further with remarks about allusions and where he might shove them, he's pulling her down on top of him as he lies back on the sand. She relishes the feel of his hard body against her softness, the unconquerable look in his eyes. And the thought occurs to her that, if anyone will live to see the end of this war, it will be James on sheer principle.

"That's hardly an answer," he returns, slipping a curl behind her ear.

"Fine, _wondrous_."

He couldn't look more self-satisfied at her response. "That's my girl."

"I'm nearly ten years your senior. Definitely not a _girl_."

"No," he says, eyes glazing over with something she knows to be want, "you're right."

And she wants to ask him what it is that he sees in her—how he could want a woman her age—but Alice hardly cares when he's rolled them so that she's trapped beneath him. Her toes curl in anticipation for his touch, and James doesn't make her wait long.

Alice suppresses a laugh at the way he's already under her shirt, attacking her belly with his lips and tongue. Eighteen years old, what can she honestly expect? But his enthusiasm is sweet, and she doesn't much care for the all around lack of romance when his fingers are slipping beneath her knickers.

With skill that belies his age, James brings her to easy arousal. She can hardly control the hitching of her breath, the little sighs and gasps that he lifts from her lips. Alice feels her wetness, feels James sheathing two fingers inside of her before she knows what's happened. And it's a rush—the way he works her, pumping in and out of her while his mouth sees to her breasts. She aches for him, deeply and unrelentingly, and almost asks for it before she hears him say her name.

"Alice, love."

He raises his head from her chest, panting softly. She's not sure what he wants from her, but whatever it is, he's desperate for it. And he can have it, as far as she's concerned. In fact, she isn't sure why he's even asking. Maybe out of habit? Out of asking her for everything else—questions and strategies and advice? She doesn't know.

"Go on, then," she says gently, encouraging him as she always does.

Not one needing to be told twice, James is slipping out of his pants, slipping her own down her legs. Alice helps him—and not without thinking that she'd never dreamed she'd actually have sex on a beach—and soon they're naked enough to see this through. Again.

She opens for him, and James wastes little time positioning himself. He's slipping into her when she pauses, cursing herself for her own stupidity. She should know better, should never let herself be so careless.

"Wait."

"What's wrong?" His hand finds her cheek, stroking her cheekbone to comfort her.

"Can't have you making a mother of me." And she laughs at the absurdity of the idea. "Will you do the honors?"

"Sure."

James scrambles for his wand and is quick to do the charm. A familiar warmth floods through her lower belly. Just as the warmth begins to fade, James replaces it, stretching her so completely that Alice nearly moans.

And he's brilliant, really. She should have expected as much considering that he's brilliant at _everything_, but it's different experiencing it firsthand. James is rough, determined; he pounds into her with complete abandon, whimpering her name as if invoking a muse. Alice lives in this moment for what feels like forever, feeling the gradual climb, the tensing within her.

Alice reaches her peak before he does, feels the tension upon her suddenly, the indescribable sensations pooling in her belly before stretching out to her fingertips and toes. She can't help but murmur his name as she shudders around him, can't help but cling to him for her life. Because she feels like she's dying she's so spent. And death, well it feels wonderful, like falling asleep after a tiring day.

It doesn't last long though—and it never really does—and James is still moving within her, his body unbelievably rigid and breathing shallow. She runs her fingers through his mussed up hair, clings to him as he cries out, spilling himself inside her. And that's when she hears his whispered, "I love you."

Stunned, that's the only way to describe it. He loves her? He can't mean it, surely. She won't believe it. She knows him; she _thinks_she knows him. And James wouldn't…would he? No, no, of course not. But still…what if? Though it's not as if she can ask him to kindly repeat that.

So Alice lays there, unable to bask in the afterglow of whatever it was that they shared. She pretends like she hadn't heard it, that he's a boy and sometimes they slip up. And regardless, even if he _had_ meant it, she doesn't feel the same, could _never_feel the same. What she and James have…it was never meant to move beyond the battlefield, beyond the bed linens. She can only hope that James understands.

She lays there—enveloped by his nakedness—lost in her own world. The kisses he plants on her cheek are barely noticed, as is his delighted smile. In an almost daze, she cups his chin and gazes for a long while.

They could have been something, maybe. In another life, he might have made her beyond happy. But never in this one, she's convinced. Yet—if this assignment has taught her anything—it's that a little piece of him belongs to her now, too. And she loves it desperately. Maybe that's what he meant by _I love you_— _I love what you are to me_. And if that's the case, she understands him perfectly.

Shifting, James curls up against her side, his fingers grazing her belly in a steady pattern. He's tired after this, and in his sleepy state, Alice feels particularly protective of him.

"Sing to me," he whispers.

She smiles. "_Somewhere beyond the sea…_"

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><p>.<p>

_We'll meet beyond the shore  
>We'll kiss just as before.<br>Happy we'll be beyond the sea  
>And never again I'll go sailing.<em>


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